


Don't Ever Do That Again

by xsnarksthespot



Series: The Ringleader, The Sniper, and The Brute [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Amputation, Angst and Humor, Crossover, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Still Have No Idea What I'm Doing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU crossover with The Walking Dead: The group tries to clear a prison full of walkers so they have a safe place to live, with terrifying consequences all around.  </p><p>
  <i>Treville lies bleeding at their feet. Athos is torn between going after Porthos or dragging the man to safety behind the cafeteria doors down the hall that’s starting to empty. His eyes jerk to Aramis’ face, whose horrified gaze flickers between his wounded friend and the one who just disappeared around a corner.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Maybe forever.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Ever Do That Again

**Author's Note:**

> I know switching between past and present tense can be a little jarring. But! I liked the set-up of the first one (flashbacks sandwiched between the beginning and end of a "current" scene") so I stuck with it, even though technically, the prison is a past scene on its own. I hope it adds to the story and doesn't detract.

“Stay here. Help the Captain.”

“Porthos, _NO_!”

The shout echoes down the dark corridor in the belly of the prison, too little too late. Porthos has already waded into the wall of shambling dead that cut them off, swinging a machete and driving back walkers with the riot shield in his other hand. He bangs the knife against the shield and shouts taunts to keep their attention, leading them towards a corner to the left. One last broken stare is sent back towards the group huddled at the other end of the hall, like he means to say something but just can’t find the words, and then he’s out of sight.

Treville lies bleeding at their feet. Athos is torn between going after Porthos or dragging the man to safety behind the cafeteria doors down the hall that’s starting to empty. His eyes jerk to Aramis’ face, whose horrified gaze flickers between his wounded friend and the one who just disappeared around a corner. 

Maybe forever.

“Go, goddamn it,” Treville snaps. When Aramis still hesitates, Treville kicks at him with his good leg. “There’s nothing you can do here. _Go_!” Sparing a heartbroken glance for Treville - and an apologetic one for Athos, who nods his understanding - Aramis unsheathes his long-handled corn knife and barrels down the hallway with his own riot shield brandished. Athos grimaces and hooks his hands under Treville’s armpits. 

The bite on the old Marine’s leg may as well be lit up in neon. 

“It’s too late...isn’t it?” d’Artagnan whispers. The look in his eyes is so young, so _hopeless_ , in that moment that Athos hates this world more than he ever has before.

“ _d’Artagnan_ , don’t be an idiot,” Constance mumbles, not without sympathy.

“Get his feet.”

d’Artagnan obeys Athos’ barked command with only the slightest pause, his contrite gaze dropping to Treville as he moves. They crash through the cafeteria doors and Constance makes sure they’re securely shut behind them without being told. She’s come a long way in the past year. From slightly prim and uncomfortable with her place in the world to a strong-willed and competent backbone of their small crew of survivors.

Athos promises himself he’ll tell her that later, if only they’re not too caught up in another round of fight or die.

Right now, he’s focused on the brutal act he’s just decided to commit. It’s the only chance Treville has to survive the bite, but that doesn’t make it any easier for Athos to unsheath his katana. d’Artagnan’s eyes go wide, and Constance’s too, behind him, but neither of them say a word to stop him.

“Do it,” Treville grimaces, dropping his head back against the concrete beneath him. 

“Hold him still,” Athos murmurs after Treville’s determined stare lands on him and stays. Constance is a half a beat ahead of d’Artagnan and she presses down hard on Treville's uninjured leg and hip. d’Artagnan puts both shaking hands on the man’s upper chest. 

Even this is a shot in the dark and they all know it. It’s a palpable weight in the air between them.

Athos grabs Treville’s thigh and rests the sword just below the knee, trying to center himself. There’s only a few crooked shafts of light coming through small barred windows high up in the walls but his vision feels achingly sharp. His breath stills - a distant, frantic shout from Porthos snatching his focus until d’Artagnan whispers his name - and then he chops the blade into the air and down again. Treville arches in pain, gritting back the scream that is lodged in the back of his throat.

It takes three tries to cleave completely through bone and Athos curses himself for not keeping his blade as sharp as he should. Try as he might, Treville can’t stifle the wrecked sob that catapults from his mouth after the second strike. Thankfully, he passes out immediately after. The guilt of causing Treville additional pain gets catalogued and stored away with the mountains of regrets Athos already has locked away in his heart.

He has to remind himself repeatedly that this idea was Treville’s and that it was a _good_ idea, even as dangerous as it was. The prison is the best shelter they’ve found all year. They need to clear it out and gather anything of use within its walls.

But the truth is, it was still Athos’ plan that put them here. And, with Treville breathing shallowly as they try to stop the bleeding, and Porthos and Aramis out of his sight, possibly already doomed, Athos knows it doesn't matter what he tells himself. No shelter, no matter how secure, was worth this. If he loses all three…

The thought slices agony through his chest, leaving him quietly gasping for air. 

Constance frowns and rubs a hand over his back. “I’m going to check the kitchen for first aid supplies.”

“I...should go with you,” Athos whispers. d’Artagnan shakes his head, reaching over Treville to squeeze Athos’ shoulder. 

“I’ll go.”

After a moment, Athos nods woodenly and closes his eyes, listening for clues as to where Aramis and Porthos are and whether they still draw breath.

\-----

They met Treville a few weeks after Atlanta became a war zone. He was barking quiet orders to a ragtag group of scavengers digging through the remains of a gas station outside the city. Athos shifted a raised eyebrow glance to his brothers, staying hidden behind the abandoned car across the parking lot. 

“If that man’s not a Marine, I will eat my boot.”

Aramis tutted, smirking behind the rifle he was using as a binocular. “It would be a shame if the first thing you eat today is rough leather. Especially with where those boots have been. Luckily, I think you’re probably right.”

Their car broke down five days prior and not even Porthos could get it running again. _Blown headgasket_ , he’d muttered, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a grease streak across his cheek highlighting the frustration in his expressive eyes. Aramis had clapped a hand on his back instead of swiping away the stain with his thumb. Self-control was a beautiful thing.

They could have found the part, repaired the car, but most of their supplies had already been given to a retirement home full of seniors that couldn’t be moved and the handful of nurses that refused to leave them to die slow painful deaths, so they’d simply packed up what little they had left in duffle bags and headed towards the city with the idea of seeking out the Center for Disease Control. 

Fort McPherson had already been overrun and abandoned to the dead, unfortunately. They’d found that one out the hard way.

“Maybe we should say hello, then,” Porthos whispered from his hiding spot by the trunk. His dark eyes never left the gas station windows, but his frown was persistent. It wasn’t the first time they’d run into other survivors since the retirement home. The last two had tried to steal their car, but had only received a broken arm and a busted nose, respectively, for their effort. As much as they were inclined to help people, the world had already morphed into survival of the fittest in a matter of weeks, so it was difficult finding a place to do good rather than simply _survive_.

“I think we should,” Athos murmured thoughtfully. He couldn’t hear what Treville was saying, but there was something about the way he carried himself that inspired respect, even from a distance. 

Aramis tilted his soft grey cowboy hat back down over his forehead. “Agreed. But if you both can stop frowning, that might help things along. Try for polite and friendly, hm? At least until bullets start flying.”

 _Saying hello_ turned out to be helping the crew fight off a surprise wave of walkers. It ended with Porthos on the ground next to a useless gas pump, his neck under Treville’s boot and an adrenaline soaked grin painted across his mouth.

“Nice boots. You’re not too bad with a gun, either. For an _officer_.” It was a guess, but one built on over a decade in the Corps, and the small smirk that curled Treville’s mouth let Porthos know he’d either hit the nail on the head or at least been amusing enough in his failure to earn his neck back.

“Second battalion, fourth Marines,” Treville said by way of introduction. “Captain Treville,” he added belatedly, reaching out a hand to help Porthos to his feet. Porthos gave him a small, half-assed salute once he was standing, then followed it up with a mocking smirk.

“Gunny Du Vallon. But it’s just Porthos these days. A little bit old to still be a Captain, ain’t ya?”

Athos sighed loudly somewhere behind him and Aramis huffed an amused sound through his nose, but the tension leaking out of them as they lowered their guns. Treville narrowed his eyes, quietly taking stock of the large Marine in front of him. Eventually, he just shook his head.

“Turns out I wasn’t politically _savvy_ enough to get myself up into the paper pusher ranks. Besides, I’d have missed so many opportunities to order enlisted shit-talkers to shine my boots.”

Porthos’ laugh echoed out into the quiet wasteland.

\-----

“ _Be quiet, Porthos_ ,” Aramis hissed. “This is not the time for knocking you unconscious.”

Porthos groaned wordlessly, dropping his head back against the floor of the shed. They wouldn’t normally have trapped themselves in such a small space, but his arm had hung uselessly at his side, so Aramis had insisted. It wasn’t broken, but it was still too painful to use after his tumble out of a second floor window into an unforgiving garden just moments before. 

The shoulder the arm was attached to was another story altogether. Aramis leaned over him and pressed his fingertips methodically into Porthos’ neck and shoulder, sorting out exactly how bad it was as best as he could by touch.

“Definitely dislocated,” he murmured, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth before his face brightened to some strange combination of genuinely grateful and mockingly furious. “It could be worse. You could have _broken your damn neck_ and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation!” Aramis chirped frigidly.

Rolling his head to the side to squint up at Aramis, Porthos lifted his eyebrows slowly. He was in pain and he was exhausted, but if his friend wanted a fight, he could muster one. 

Well, maybe half of one.

“Didn’t have much of a fuckin’ choice,” he growled.

“So you claim.” After a pause, Aramis’ touch was still all business and he didn’t make eye contact, but his voice came out soft and strangled. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Porthos sighed. Whatever he was about to say to ease his friend’s mind was lost as a wave of dizziness swam through his gut and his eyelashes fluttered shut. The expression on Aramis’ face shifted from fearfully angry to just plain fearful. 

“Dizzy? How’s your vision? Are you nauseous?” The shoulder was temporarily forgotten at the first sign that Porthos could have a concussion and Aramis grazed a hand over Porthos head as he whispered the questions in his “medic voice”, as Porthos liked to call it. The only light in the shed was muddy, filtered through cracks in the walls and the one under the door. Pulling out a small flashlight, Aramis cupped one hand around the end to make sure the light didn’t travel far while he quickly checked Porthos’ pupils. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Let’s just get on with it. We need to circle back around to Athos before he thinks the worst and comes after us.” In truth, he _was_ a bit nauseous, even lying down, and it was taking too much energy to focus on the man hovering over him. But, he’d had his share of concussions and this one felt no worse than the others.

Aramis clenched his jaw. He knew he was getting a brush-off, but Porthos was right. They had to move quickly. Curling his fingers around the side of Porthos’ neck, Aramis nodded tightly before shoving the flashlight back into a side pocket of his rucksack. He shifted his hand to Porthos’ shoulder and used his other hand to bend the man’s elbow to ninety degrees.

“You’re going to need to sit up and counterbalance, push away,” Aramis gestured with his tense jaw. 

“Not my first time, Aramis,” Porthos reminded him, managing a smirk even though his gaze was locked on the tight line of his friend’s mouth. After he shifted awkwardly to a sitting position, Aramis gave him a grim smile and began to pull. Porthos bit back a guttural sound of pain until a barely audible pop let them both know the shoulder was back in place. Only then did he huff out a few strangled breaths and curse under his breath.

Aramis opened his mouth to ask how it felt, but the sound of weight crashing against the metal door of the shed stole his voice. His worried gaze lifted to meet Porthos’ unfocused one. That stare lasted longer than it should have, with mindless scratching and scrambling happening only a foot away, but Porthos was unwilling to break it. Reaching to wrap his hand around the back of Aramis’ head, he pulled his friend close enough to whisper against his ear.

“I’m okay. I can still fight. _We’ve got this_.” 

He’d uttered that last sentence so many times over the years that it was like a mantra between them. Sometimes it was more accurate than others. But it almost always shored up Aramis’ defenses and inserted the steel back in his spine. If Porthos could fall out of a two-story window and get his shoulder snapped back into place inside a tiny shed, but still say those words like there were the only absolute in a world full of uncertainties, then Aramis could damn well square his shoulders and get them both back to relative safety. Back to Athos.

Another smash vibrated against the shed. Porthos released Aramis and rolled carefully to his side until he could stand, biting back a groan. He unsheathed his machete from the scabbard on his back and stared at the door as the groans and movement outside intensified. Aramis had his Browning Hi-Power in hand only a half beat later. He didn’t want to waste bullets or draw extra walkers to them, but it sounded like there were a few already and he couldn’t risk them both trying to hack-and-slash their way out.

“Do me a favor, hm? Try not to do anything _especially_ stupid for the next few minutes?” Aramis raised his eyebrows and shot Porthos a deceptively blank expression over his shoulder as he stepped up to the door. 

Porthos grinned, a silent laugh bringing the sharpness back to his eyes. “Ehh...I’ll try,” he sighed dramatically. “No promises.”

Aramis muttered through the stifled laughter on his tongue. “My God, you’re infuriating…”

“Yeah, yeah. You love it,” Porthos shot back, elbowing Aramis good-naturedly as he took his place beside him. It took Aramis a second to disengage his focus, his eyes dragging over Porthos’ face like he hadn’t already memorized it years ago and still needed a few more seconds to get the mental image just right. Eventually, he exhaled a steadying breath and lifted his gun before kicking the door open.

Both men froze in surprise at the sight that awaited them: Athos standing over four corpses and slicing through the forehead of a fifth and final walker with his sword. Intense relief swam through his eyes when he spotted them through the gaping shed door, but he schooled his face into its usual stoic mask quickly enough.

“Have a nice nap?” he droned. The katana slid home in its scabbard with habitual ease.

“Of course. I’m feeling very refreshed now, thank you for asking,” Aramis snarked back, holstering his gun to clap a hand on Athos back. “Get what you came for?”

“For the most part.”

“Good. Because our reckless idiot here decided he doesn’t need to use doors when second story windows work just as well.” Aramis gestured with a thumb over his shoulder and the “reckless idiot” in question shrugged, his mouth forming into an exaggerated upside down u-shape.

“Of course he did.” Despite his unaffected tone, Athos ran a concerned gaze over Porthos and made a move to reach for him, but it fell slightly short of its mark. “Will he live?”

Even though the question was directed at Aramis, and melodramatic besides, Porthos shuffled in between the two men and wrapped his good arm around Athos’ neck, his machete dangling harmlessly from his hand. 

“S’nothin’ a few days in my rack and some tender lovin’ care won’t cure, Athos,” he grinned. 

Athos rolled his eyes. “Can you walk well enough on your own then?”

“Yeah. Course. Ankle’s a little wonky, but it doesn’t hurt too much now.”

“Good. Then get the hell off me,” Athos smirked, nudging Porthos away.with a gentleness he would have denied given half a chance.

Porthos laughed. He ruffled a hand affectionately through Athos hair as he pulled away, earning him a steely gaze of disapproval, but that only encouraged another quiet chuckle. 

“Alright, c’mon ya great big grump. I’m _starvin’_.”

\-----

“ _Aramis_!”

Porthos takes down two walkers in his push to reach the four that are falling on top of his friend. Aramis had been surprised by two of them coming up from behind and had tripped over a chunk of cement, broken away from the damaged walls around them. The back of his head connected with an exposed water pipe near the base of the wall on his way to the ground and now he’s lying there, unmoving.

The riot shield connects with three of the dead crowding their target, knocking them away like falling dominoes. While they’re tangled up in each other, Porthos stabs his blade through the eye socket of the fourth, driving it up into what’s left of the corpse’s brain. The other three are ended shortly thereafter, with the shield used to pin them down in a pile of flailing limbs until he finishes them off with methodical precision.

Just as fast, he’s on his knees next to Aramis. 

“Aramis, hey, hey, _wake up_. Wake up, damn you,” Porthos whispers frantically. A noise from somewhere jerks his gaze up and down the hall, but it’s only the briefest of glances before he’s snagging Aramis under the arms and dragging him into a nearby cell with a large metal door instead of bars. 

Once the door is shut and they’re relatively safe from surprises, Porthos eases back to the ground and pulls Aramis half into his lap. His flashlight is somewhere back in the hall, but he finds one jammed in the pocket of Aramis’ jeans and fishes it out. It’s not enough light to banish the complete darkness of the cell, but it lets him see the unconscious man in his lap. That's more than enough. He exhales in a rush when his fingertips find a thready pulse in Aramis’ neck. 

There is a worrying gash at the back of his friend’s head, however. Porthos’ fingers come away damp with blood when he finds it and he lifts his face to the ceiling, his eyes fluttering shut.

He never prays. Gave up on God a long time ago and it always feels too much like begging for his tastes, anyway.

But for Aramis, he can pray. For _Aramis_ , he can beg. If God has any mercy left for them, even the tiniest bit, maybe he’ll even listen.

“ _Please-wake-up_...please. I don’t...I don't think I can do this without you.” Even in a choked murmur, the words feel loud and abrasive after a few minutes of silence in a nearly pitch black cell, with only Aramis’ too quiet breathing and an awkward mental conversation with God to keep Porthos tethered in the here and now. Pressing his forehead against Aramis’ temple, he tracks blood across his friend’s cheek with a swipe of his thumb. 

He’s two seconds away from carrying Aramis back towards the cafeteria when the man shifts in his arms and stutters out a pained groan.

“ _Ooow_...?” 

Porthos almost laughs. Whether from relief or the morbidly amused uplift at the end of that word, it doesn’t matter. He’s too busy lifting his head and cradling Aramis’ face in both hands.

“Yeah, I bet. Your skull got friendly with a water pipe. Didn't go so hot.” The second the words are out of his mouth, before he even knows what he’s doing, Porthos flashes a shaky, crooked smile and drops his head to kiss him. 

Impulse crashes headlong into doubt at the last second, but it’s too late to course correct, even if he _wanted_ to. All he can do is temper his need. He ends up pressing his lips to Aramis’ mouth with a gentle urgency that surprises even him.

Aramis stiffens in his arms.

Jerking his head back, Porthos huffs out a short, distressed sound that he supposes resembles the laugh he was aiming for, at least _vaguely_. “Sorry, sorry. You were...you were out for a little while and I was…” He doesn’t finish the explanation, just shrugs as an embarrassed smile flickers across his mouth. If he weren’t stubbornly avoiding eye contact, Porthos might have seen the heavy warmth in Aramis’ surprised gaze, but he obliviously shifts out from under him to lean against the wall behind them, instead. “Can you move?” 

“I...maybe?” Aramis wants to say something else. He wants to say a hundred something elses. _A thousand_. This is neither the time nor the place, but good God, when is it ever? Their lives are one horror after another. He pushes himself to a sitting position and scoots back a few inches until he feels the wall at his back and the soothing pressure of Porthos’ shoulder. 

Well, okay. His vision only swam for a few seconds and he didn’t vomit. So far, so good.

They sit there in silence for a moment, settling back into their skin. Eventually, Porthos rocks his head to the side to face Aramis. The cone of illumination from the flashlight marks a weak path across his face, revealing a wistful gaze and a matching smile. 

“Please don’t…ever do that again,” he whispers, restrained emotion cracking through the seams.

Aramis answers him by reaching over, curling a hand into his hair, and pulling him roughly to his mouth without warning. There’s no time to do this right. There’s never enough time anymore. 

But then, this is Porthos. Wherever they are. However bad it gets. It will always be _right_ with Porthos.

Aramis tries to press that knowledge into his mouth and when Porthos parts his lips on a quaking inhale, Aramis dives back in to deliver the same message with his tongue. The way Porthos latches onto his bicep and yanks him as close as he can get him makes Aramis think that he’s probably succeeded. But the growl that vibrates from Porthos’ mouth to his - slicing want through him like a knife - erases any doubt.

The distant echo of Athos shouting their names forces them apart, breathless and tense.

“Right…”

“Uh huh…”

“We should find him before he takes on every walker in this place,” Aramis sighs quietly.

“Yeah.” 

They climb to their feet, Aramis only a little unsteadily, which is comforting for the both of them. With Treville flashing to the forefront of their thoughts, they’ll take whatever comfort they can get.

Porthos halts at the door. Before Aramis can wonder what he’s up to, Porthos spins and drives him against the closest wall with the weight of his body and the heated crush of his mouth. It’s a brief kiss in comparison to the last, but it leaves Aramis aching from head to toe.

Stepping away, Porthos reaches for the door, a barely perceptible smirk curling one edge of his mouth. “Try not to do anything _especially_ stupid for the next few minutes.”


End file.
